Alone With The World
by Monsieur Prongs
Summary: The message got there too late it would seem. And Sebastian Moran was just that. Late. SPOILERS for the third episode of Sherlock series two. Additional warnings inside.


_**Warning from the Author: **This fiction contains strong language (not as much as you'd think), blood, a male on male kiss, and references to past sexual relations between two men. If you do not like that kind of thing, do not proceed. This fiction was based off the popular 'Alone on the Water'. The author wishes to express a desire for you to enjoy this fiction, and to also review, because it's nice. _

_End of announcement, enjoy your fanfiction._

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><p>Sebastian Moran checked his text messages far too late. Actually, it was only half an hour late, but for him, that was far too late. Sebastian's heart raced as he ran across London, cab to cab, street to street. The message didn't say much. In fact, it said very little.<p>

'Please come. Bart's. -M' Three words and a letter. Two periods, one apostrophe, and a dash. Half an hour later, Sebastian Moran had thought to check his phone. And by then it was... Or at least he thought it was.

Jim had been going on about it for weeks. For months, really. Sebastian knew it was something big, and the way Jim would be slipping out for weeks, and the text messages of code and short, curt instructions, Sebastian knew this was Jim's problem. His final problem. Once, at dinner, Jim had mentioned something along the lines of 'things quieting down' after this big gig. Normally, Sebastian would say nothing, and simply grin, however, this time it didn't sound promising.

And the text message just proved it.

Jim Moriarty never said please.

The fact that he started the text with the word set Sebastian on edge. He nodded 'Hello' to Molly as he raced up the stairs to the roof. He knew that's where Jim would be. Jim's rather fond of high places. Made him feel rather superior. Taller. Despite his heart being in his throat as his breath is heaved out, Sebastian's lips twitched into a small smile.

At the door he stopped, his heart stopped with him. And oh GOD he wished he hadn't. There stood Sherlock, there stood Jim, and they were shaking hands. Jim had this look on his face... It sent chills down Sebastian's back. He caught the tail end of the conversation. "Bless you."

That's what Jim had said. And he just kept going. "With me alive you can save your friends. You have a way out." At that moment he stopped breathing. Jim had said those words a thousand times before, but this time it was different. The face he pulled. "GOOD LUCK WITH THAT!"

Sebastian involuntarily took a step back as Jim's hand suddenly had a gun clasped tight. He made a small strangled noise as he placed it in his mouth. Time seemed to slow down, moving a frame a second. It was like watching a film, a film which you already know the ending but you still want to change it. Sebastian couldn't seem to look away. He flinched as the shot fired off, and the blood sprayed. He leaped forward, slamming into the door which remained firmly closed. He didn't even bother with the handle. A dry sob forced itself from his lips as he watched pitifully behind the door, through the inadequate window as Jim fell to the floor, that strange look on his face.

Sebastian was used to that look. The look that Jim had when he did something stupid. What he wasn't used to was the cold, dead look in his usually sparkling eyes. It tore him apart. Suddenly the call earlier that day... the call he made to Jim after he discovered the message, when the first inklings of doubt entered his heart, didn't seem casual. It seemed more urgent, like maybe Sebastian could have stopped this idiotic mission. Sherlock stood over the lifeless form of his employer and Sebastian sunk to the floor, utterly spent.

He couldn't block that image of blood, shots, bullets, his face from his mind. He couldn't think about anything else. And suddenly his chest was so tight he could barely breathe. He banged his head against the door and wrapped his arms around himself.

To lose someone like that... By the time Sebastian had calmed down enough to stand up, Sherlock had been gone from the edge for several minutes. The sound of the ambulance is what made him stand up. He realized he had things to do, arrangements to make.

... A body to bury.

Sebastian masked every emotion, placing himself in his old position of not giving a single fuck. It was like when he came back from the war, only a hundred times worse. He kept running the things he would have told him over and over in his mind. One sentence kept coming around every few seconds. 'Jim, I love you. Please don't do this.' Again, and again. It threatened to break the wall he put around his features. A stray tear crawled down his scruffy cheek, and he let it. He opened the door casually, and made his way to the body. Sebastian didn't even think. He bent down and took the man's pulse, hoping was just a side effect. Nothing. Of course. He stared at his former employer and lover's features, his face hard.

He took a deep breath and gently touched his lips to Jim's cold ones before closing his eyes with his fingertips. He stepped around the small trail of blood, there was more than he thought. He sucked in a breath as he realized how damaged Jim was. His breath caught again, and his mask nearly came tumbling down.

He noticed a folded piece of paper that remained unharmed in Jim's top pocket. Carefully slipping it out he saw it was addressed to him. With trembling fingers, he unfolded the letter and quickly skimmed it, clutching it to his chest, his carefully constructed mask falling down around him as he let the words sink in.

_Three Years Later_

Sebastian never took his eyes off of John Watson, he spent valuable resources watching him, while he himself hunted down Sherlock Holmes. He knew he had survived. He spent three whole years of his life, letting those less capable to take care of the problems brought to him. He filled Jim's shoes, just like he asked, although they were a bit big for him. He had his hands full, never a dull moment. But then he figured that was probably best. The letter he stole from Jim's corpse never left his pocket, it always sat there. He only ever took it out to slip it under his pillow on the rare occasion that he slept, and to switch it to a fresh pair of pants. He had taken to wearing suits. He hadn't really done it before, but since Jim's death he felt a bit weird not wearing them. He wore Jim's ties, the ones he left in the closet before he died. He wore the one Jim died in more often than not, but he couldn't help it.

He was a mourner.

Jim had left him with a mess. Alone with a whole world to look after. Alone without help. Alone on top of London. Alone on that rooftop, alone, and unprepared. Alone. Alone and lonely. But he carried on. He owed the genius that much.

And the day John Watson got reunited with Sherlock Holmes was the day that Sebastian Moran snapped. He snapped his fingers once, a move Jim had taught him one drunken night back in their old flat. This finger snap signaled the end of things. He wanted to make a show of power. Sherlock Holmes would feel his wrath, however, Sebastian was more concerned with John. Sebastian Moran didn't get Jim back, he didn't get his lover, his employer, his best friend, his everything back, but John did? Sebastian didn't think it was fair. So he snapped his fingers and sat back, waiting.

In the silence, he took out the letter and smoothed it out over his desk. He knew it by heart, he didn't need to read it to know what it said. His eyes traced over Jim's smooth, curling handwriting, rereading the same sentence over and over again. He, himself, had inked over it as the rest of the letter faded with age. 'Look at me now, Seb. Look at me, all bare,' it read, simply, but there was more, the end, 'I never said it, I had hoped you knew, but in case you didn't, I love you, you son of a bitch.' That's the part Sebastian keeps to himself, every time he opened the letter he immediately went to that part and reread it for assurance.

He had the strong sense that Jim kissed it, the letter, and so Sebastian would kiss it before he laid down at night, and sometimes on a whim. Their past was nothing compared to their future. Sebastian carried that letter around everywhere. Jim's obnoxious ringtone still caused him to smile sadly. It was the guy he had on 'Sherlock duty' as he called it.

"Yes? Okay. I'll be right there. If you're lying to me, I will skin you." He said quietly before hanging up the phone. He smiled to himself as he stood up and tucked the letter away in his pocket again. It was a very Jim thing to say. In fact, he had said those exact words to him once.

When he arrived at the house the gunner squatted in, he set up his sniper, dusting the thing off. The last time he had used his favourite gun was when Jim had sent him on his last mission. And the last time he was going to use it ever, was going to be destroying the life of the man that destroyed his.

He didn't care if he got caught, he didn't even bother thinking about how long he had to leave before the police would show up. This was his life, the man that destroyed everything, and he held it in his hands. He held his breath as he focused down the sights, and squeezed the trigger. The silencer caught the bullet, only the whisper of a gun shot could be heard. The man in the window of 221 B Baker Street tumbled down and Sebastian's face broke out into a huge grin as he stood.

"That's for Jim, you son of a bitch." He murmured out the window, lighting a cigarette. "You got yours." He let out a puff of smoke and sighed happily as he sat in the window. One of his legs dangled from the sill and gently knocked against the side of the house. He didn't even bother leaving.

"Not quite." Sebastian looked up quickly. That voice. It chilled him to the bone. From the shadows stepped the man that he had just shot. Sebastian jumped forward, tossing his light out the window and landing a series of blows across Sherlock Holmes' face. From the other side of the room stepped John who wrapped his arms around the Sebastian, holding him fast until the police flooded the room. As soon as the Detective Inspector, Sebastian Moran put his mask back on, and stilled.

"Name?"

"Sebastian Moran, sir."

"What the Hell did you think you were doing?" Lestrade asked in awe. Sebastian tilted his head to the side.

"Doing what my boss asked."

"Your boss?"

"James Moriarty. You might remember him, Mr. Holmes." Sherlock looked down his nose at Sebastian with a pinched expression.

"The Consulting Criminal."

"I'm the Consulting Criminal now." He said it with pride. The police cuffed him and took his phone, Jim's phone, away from him. They took the letter and handed it to Sherlock, who read it swiftly with a rather bored look.

"Seems you failed, Mr. Moran."

"Perhaps, but at least I wasn't idle. I run the empire now Mr. Holmes. You're going to get yours." Sebastian's words continued on in his mind. 'James Moriarty was the only Consulting Criminal in the world. Not anymore.'

Sebastian Moran. Consulting Criminal. Still the only one in the world.


End file.
